you look pretty when you are dead.

I like to think of you as the words I almost wrote.
Because when I think of you I see the people I am too scared to be and the thoughts I am too afraid of to surrender my heart to.

I have a theory that we are all just looking for permission to be someone else and you almost gave that to me
but I couldn't make that leap.

When I hear about you its always in whispers.
I wonder why because you have always made me want to scream.
I think maybe if we talk too loud you will disappear in the wind.

I wish I had thought of you first,
before you were sculpted by God and before your parents gave you a middle name.
I wish that I could say you were mine.

But you are not mine and you are not Gods and you do not belong to your parents.

You belong entirely to yourself and I used to think that was the way you wanted it,

but you are lonely.

You have been illuminated in your darkness and the sun is shining out of you but you said the sun refuses to shine for you.

The sun isn't shining and you've got weak knees and tired ankles.
At least that's what you say and that's why you can't climb this damn mountain with me.

You haven't seen the sun since prom junior year and I'm starting to understand what that feels like because it is so dark up here alone.

It's so dark outside and inside and I can't see anymore.



I am afraid of the dark, but you assure me that I will get used to it.